Notes: These aren't chronological, just a series of Clint/Natasha prompt fills. Genres and length will definitely vary. You never know what you'll get!

"Can I help you?"

His light, teasing sarcasm drew her away from that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness. Clint stood with arms crossed, wearing full tac gear with his bow case at his feet.

"You're back." She sighed contentedly and let her eyes close again, convinced it was finally the real Clint stood before her. He'd come home three times already, twice in dreams and once as an hallucination, brought on either by the fever or wishful thinking.

"You're in my bed."

He sat beside her and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt back, brushed his fingers across her forehead. Her skin prickled uncomfortably at the coolness of his touch and she flinched away.

"You okay, kiddo?"

Don't call me that, Barton.

The appropriate response rested on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't find the energy to rise to his baiting. He liked to throw around the old nickname - a relic from their first few weeks as partners - when he needed reassurance she was conscious, usually in the field.

"Natasha."

He began to peel away her cocoon of blankets, layer by layer. When he got down to the big sherpa throw she rallied enough to push his hand away and flip her hood back up.

"Stop, Clint. It's cold."

Why did she want him home, again?

"It's not cold. You've got my thermostat stuck on 80."

But he tucked the pile of blankets back around her. His hand rubbed absently across her shoulders.

"You're really sick this time, Tash. Why didn't you go to Medical?"

"You weren't here."

It was stupid and childish, she realized that, but she'd never been able to make herself trust the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics.

"Hill would've gone with you."

"Couldn't find her."

"Didn't see her in the two hallways between your room and mine, you mean."

She hummed a noncommittal sound, but didn't think his very accurate assessment needed to be dignified with a response. Clint sighed and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Your choice: me or Medical?"

"I'm not going to Medical."

Her declaration was undermined by a coughing fit, a harsh barking sound that made her chest ache.

"Stubborn," Clint accused, "but I slept on the Quinjet last night and don't have the energy to fight you." He disappeared into the bathroom.

When he returned he forced a thermometer on her ("102 and-a-half, God Nat, how are you still alive?"), made her swallow three pills and a plastic measuring cup full of sticky sweet syrup, swapped the pullover for one of his old t-shirts, and confiscated half her blankets.

"You're doing the opposite of making me feel better," she informed him, shivering under the paltry three layers of covers he'd left her with.

"You don't need six blankets and a pullover," he said, stripping out of his tac suit. "You do need to stop talking before you lose your voice completely."

He sat beside her again, this time in his boxers and mismatched socks, and resumed rubbing her back.

"Want anything before I shower?"

"My blankets back?" she appealed, and he rolled his eyes.

"Now you're just being a pain in the ass." He mussed her hair and tucked one of the blankets tight over her shoulders. "I'll leave the door open if you need me."

He passed out of her line of sight and her eyes fell on the pile of leather and Kevlar across the room instead. His quiver sat overturned by the door, arrows spilling out onto the carpet, and his bow case leaned against the nightstand with one clasp open.

She couldn't recall ever seeing his equipment abandoned on the floor. It gave her an anxious little flutter in her chest that wasn't entirely unpleasant, and which she didn't care to examine at the moment.

The steam from the shower warmed the room, making the air humid and thick, and finally, finally, she felt tired muscles relax as the shivering subsided. Then Clint was sliding in behind her, leaning up on one elbow, heat still radiating from his skin after the shower. She pushed back against him and he tangled their legs, draped his arm across her chest, tucked her head into his shoulder. She clung to his forearm and twisted their fingers together.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," he mumbled into her hair, but she shook her head slightly, absolving him. She'd waited longer than two days before, and would again. His lips brushed soft and warm against her temple.

"You're better than Medical," she told him in a hoarse whisper.

"You're a cheeseball, Romanoff."

She felt the cherry-flavored syrup dragging her under, toward real sleep, not the fitful when's-Clint-coming-back half-rest she'd been battling. His voice washed over her, comforting in the same way his fingers combing through her hair was comforting, slow and gentle and steady.